Locust and Honey Eater
by Luckynumber28
Summary: Slit was saved from the flames and has been reborn as a disciple of John the Judas, the army surgeon turned wandering Holy Man who nursed him back to health. His burns leave him nearly blind and deaf, but the Judas teaches Slit how live with his impairments among the desert canyons. One day, he shows the same mercy to a lost girl. Only to find out that she is a Buzzard. (Slit/OC)
1. Cankerworm

His throat afire, nostrils thick with smoke, and the bite of Guzzoline still in his mouth, he roused to consciousness. He couldn't open his eyes or perhaps they were open and it was too dark to see anything.

Was Vahalla a place of night? He had always envisioned it with fresh roads lacing a vast desert, the sun beating down from a cloudless sky but never burning.

His skin sizzled as though he still congealed in the belly of the burning car. The pain lanced through his waking mind till he could barely catch breath, the whole right half of his body stymied with agony.

"Witness..." he croaked. "Did someone... witness?"

The ground budged underneath him. He let out a strangled cry as he was hauled onto a metal surface. A soothing voice of an older man mumbled as soft cloth drifted down over his ruined body.

This was no Valhalla. He hadn't passed through the chrome gates into eternity. He was still living his half-life, his body wrecked, his world one of darkness. He had seen other War Boys returned to the Citadel from failed raids, their bodies already weakened by disease now destroyed by fiery collisions. He had always looked on in curious disgust at their curling flesh and pathetic cries for a merciful end. Now he was being returned to the Citadel to lay in wait for a soft death, the target of scorn and repulsive pity, no longer revered as one of the greatest War Boys of his generation.

He was Slit, the ruthless, the unpredictable, the devout. The perfect.

He would reopen his wounds out of boredom and staple them back together, deepening scars to show his devotion, that he would go to any lengths for the Immortan. Tall and muscular despite their lean diets, he was the kind of War Boy who made a glorious end.

He would have wept for his meager destiny if there had been any water left in his body, if he could think about anything but the agony.

The gravelly voice mumbled as he was dragged over uneven ground, every bump sending ripples of misery through his being. Every now and then, a word would float through his ringing ears.

"...But Ehud made him a dagger which had two edges...under his raiment...And he brought the present unto Eglon king of Moab: and Eglon was a very fat man." Slit's torment drowned out the rest of the words then they faded in once more. "And Ehud put forth his left hand, and took the dagger from his right thigh, and thrust it into his belly."

"Witness..." Slit begged, knowing it was too late for that now.

He would never see the chrome gates, he would never rise to the glorious afterwards, he would remain in the dust and rust with cowards and traitors like Nux.

"I _am_ witnessing, you Cankerworm," the old man snarled to Slit's muted surprise. "Be silent and listen. You might actually learn something worthwhile for once in your miserable, little half-life."

 **~o~**

Blissful coolness spread over his seething skin. The relief brought him around as the bracing rush of cold water fell over his chest, neck and scalp, as though he stood under the steady fall of water from the mouth of the Citadel, the immaculate Immortan Joe sloughing the shameful wounds from his body.

"That which the palmerworm hath left hath the locust eaten..."

No. It hadn't been a dream. He was still a ruin of a War Boy, his chance at eternity by the side of his living god lost forever. It was all that filthy traitor's fault. He should have left Nux to shrivel away in the Citadel. It was all because of him.

"Dirty traitor-" he growled.

"Shush!" The unknown man snapped. "Be quiet and listen... and that which the locust hath left hath the cankerworm eaten..."

"Who are you?"

"John called the Judas," he answered as another wave of water soothed Slit's darkness. "John was a common enough name in the Old World. Though I'm sure you've never met another called it."

Slit's bum eye, the right one with the white membrane shrouding the blue, cracked open. He blinked up at a shiny ceiling, gleaming with electric light, the edges muted with his weak vision in that eye. Steadily, he realized that both his eyes were open. But he was only seeing from the one. He drew a halting breath through his nose.

"I can't see- I can't-"

"I shouldn't think so from the looks of that eye. Had it from birth, eh?"

"No...not that eye." Slit tried to lift a hand to rub his good eye but couldn't muster the strength. "I can't see from my good one."

The hissing scratch of a match being struck drew his attention. The flame was held to his bad eye, the deformed one. "I can see from that one about the same."

"And now?"

"Where?"

"I'm holding it in front of your other."

Slit went silent, his skin starting to seethe again as the water dripped onto the metal floor with a hollow ting.

"I can't see it."

The man called John sighed. "Your vision in that one might come back. But most like not, after all you've been through."

Water sloshed in a container nearby. Slit closed his eyes, silently taking inventory of what he knew. He was alive but barely, his one good eye now useless, his burns extensive. He hadn't been able to hear out of his right ear since he was a pup when the throbbing growth had started behind the lobe. He was useless.

"You filth, you should have left me to die," he snarled up at his savior.

"Perhaps, but I didn't see that happening any time soon when I found you. You'd been sweltering in that wreckage for nearly a day and you still breathed. You're a tough one to kill, Cankerworm."

"I have a name!" He winced as he relaxed his body, the skin still tight.

"I don't doubt it. And it isn't the one your mother gave you, I wager."

"Never had a mother."

"Yes, you did once but you never knew her. There is much you don't know."

Another splash of water and he could focus on his words. "And what do you know? A desert rat. What are you? A Buzzard, Rock Rider?"

"Neither. I am John the Judas. And I know much, _much_ more than you can imagine, more than your false god ever wanted you to know. I would be willing to teach you, if you are willing to be silent. To listen."

The scavenger spoke blasphemy. Slit shivered despite the heat simmering in his muscles. "I have always honored him by my deeds."

"I know." A hand was laid gently against his forehead. It was a touch so foreign to Slit that he almost recoiled, as though it were a killing blow. "I know, son."

"You pity me," Slit retched the words, his stomach tightening.

"I pity what has been done to you since your birth. You are clearly a powerful warrior, one that has seen many battles on Fury Road, who has lived a life in abject dedication to your false god, an honorable one by your standards. You deserve better than a fiery death, Cankerworm."

His words were nothing Slit had ever heard. They filled him with a strong sense of self. A stranger saw his worth more than any other had before, at least any that had told him. He drew a trembling breath, water shuddering over his scarred chest.

"Will I live?"

"I don't know yet. Do you what to?"

"Don't know."

"In the Old World, patients who made their minds up that they weren't going to let their injuries or diseases lick them tended to last longer than others, Cankerworm."

"Slit."

"What?" The fuzzy image of a head hung over him, brown skin, dangling black curls dripping with white, a beard. Vivid black eyes. "What did you say?"

He swallowed. "My name is Slit."

"Perhaps it was once. But I don't think it suits you."

He scoffed. "Why is that?"

"It's too weak. The kind of name that Joe likes his followers to have to keep them down. No, no, my son. You are made for more than a name as weak as Slit."

This Judas knew how to talk, that was for sure. "You can't call me Cankerworm."

"No, I won't. I will call you Ehud. Loosely, it means strength in a language that hopefully still exists somewhere in this wreck of a world. Ehud was a man of great purpose who killed a king by stabbing him in the belly with a double edged sword. It's fitting for a someone like you."

Slit had to admit, John the Judas made it sound nice. "Sounds about right for a War Boy," he muttered wryly.

"For a man. You are not a War Boy any longer. You are a man, worthy of the title. Your false god has been toppled, Immortan Joe was killed along with his other diseased warlords. What you do now is entirely up to you. As a man. Do you understand, Slit called Ehud?"


	2. Wilderness

**2,000 Days Later**

"Hear tell the Judas has been seen around these parts of the Badlands," the youngest War Boy in the Legion said. From Gastown, he was the last of a dying breed, there were few War Pups left since the Fall. It was something his Imperator was determined to change. "Is it true that he isn't even... like us?"

"He's a ghost," Scoot, the senior War Boy positioned next to him answered, picking his teeth with the end of a screw. "Not made of meat, that's for sure."

"Have you ever seen him?"

"Not many do and live to tell the tale. He's been here since the beginning. Not even Rock Riders come 'round these parts. Hear tell he can be in two places at the same time."

The War Boy furrowed his white painted brow, eyebrows dipping over the blackened concave of his eye sockets. "...maybe there's more than one of him."

Scoot laughed and punched him hard in the shoulder. "Keep your mind on this run to the Citadel, pup. You've got more to worry about than ghost stories."

"Is it true he was the first of us? The first War Boy? Before he defied the Fallen God and went rogue?"

The rev of an engine sounded on the other side of the crevasse, ending their conversation. It could be anything from a Buzzard spiked Barbacon to the readied War Rig of the reborn Immortan Legion out of the troubled Bullet Farms. The young War Boy readied himself for war and Valhalla, if the gates were opening for him that day. He was ready either way, ready to fight and ready to die. He had waited his whole life for that moment.

His heart sank as their two jeeps and motorbike emerged onto the open Wasteland. It was only a sad little tow truck, barely rigged out with rusted armor and two feral wanderers in the front seat. They hit the brakes and tried to swerve out of the way but a few well placed shots at their back wheels slowed their getaway. They didn't even make it past the shadow of the canyon.

"Fresh blood hopefully," Scoot grumbled under his breath as he lifted the reflective goggles from his face. He winced as he rubbed at the bulbous growth in his left armpit. "We need it bad, if any of us want to escape a soft death."

The two War Boys on the motorbike leaped to the sand and ripped the two men from the front seat of the truck, wrestling them to the ground. They were pierced and scarred like something tough, but clearly weakened by dehydration. One had a bad infection in his eye that made the side of his face droop. It wasn't much of a prospect for blood, but they were reaching the end of their supply of fresh blood bags in Gastown.

"Look what we have here!" Scoot called out as he rummaged through the back seat.

A shrill scream echoed across the canyon, that of a woman. She wasn't much to look at with her skin badly pock marked and her front teeth missing, hair hanging limp with sweat around her ears. But she was pregnant. What they needed more than blood were males for war and females for breeding.

One of the wanderers fought hard against the War Boys. The young War Boy watched the drama with detached interest. As he leaned against the jeep, running a hand over his shaved head, he wasn't even considering what could be watching them from the cliff above.

Scoot gave a broad laugh, holding her by her scraggly hair. "Say! You think this one is-"

Before he could finish his sentence, his neck exploded with a direct shot to his jugular. Two more shots took out more War Boys. Chaos broke out as the War Boys returned to their vehicles, dragging their bound captives along with them, and sped back towards the now silent canyons.

Alone in the back of the jeep, with Scoot lying dead behind them, the War Boy's hands trembled as he gripped a thunderstick. His sweaty palms slicked white paint down the shaft as he scanned the cliffs, the jeep careening through the canyon, hunting it's prey.

It had to be Rock Riders, maybe a lone Buzzard, a Mancannon scouting for meat. He shivered at the thought of it being a Buzzard, their rotting skin held in place by blood stained wrappings, hunting down their next meal. Cannibals that lived underground, it didn't get much more nightmarish than that.

Except for the specter of the Judas, the man that both existed and didn't. Who both defied and survived the Immortan. The War Boy shook his head, banishing those thoughts. They would only distract him.

"The eastern ridge!" The shout rose up from the perched rider on the back of the bike behind it's driver. He pointed towards a lone figure in a flowing shroud that leaped down a sheer cliff and vanished. The young War Boy rubbed his eyes. "He was just there!"

A barrage of explosive arrows shrilled from the western ridge, killing both jeep drivers. The young War Boy hung on as the jeep swerved and crashed, killing one of the feral wanderers who was ejected through the windshield.

Their enemy seemed to be only one man, but there were too many shots from too many places.

The convoy of ten was cut down to three in a short span of time, as alternating bullets and arrows sniped from the cliffs. The two senior War Boys remaining shouted challenges towards their attacker. The young War Boy, still gripping his thunderstick, sank to his knees and hid.

A War Boy never showed fear, especially in the face of his enemy. But what could you do if you couldn't see your enemy? If the enemy might not even be real flesh and blood?

A resonant thud sounded behind him. The War Boy stared wide eyed over the rail. A tall, broad shouldered figure rose from the sand, the wind whipping clouds of red dust around his heavy boots. He wore a long robe of dirt brown, the sides slit to the hips to reveal black pants like the ones the War Boys wore. His head and face was wrapped like a Buzzard, only a slim cut at the eyes that showed just shadows beneath. His tanned gloves ran up his wrists, one hand holding a pistol. He shot the War Boy facing him, the body hitting the side of the jeep with the force of the bullet.

The remaining War Boy howled at him, spraying his mouth with bottle of chrome till his scarred lips dripped silver. Pounding his chest, he lifted his thunderstick in the air and made to throw himself at the approaching warrior.

The Judas pulled a strange weapon from his side. Much longer than a simple knife or machete, the metal rang as he brandished it with a neat twirl of his wrist. It easily sliced through the staff of the thunderstick, the explosive head careening into the nearby jeep door and blowing it away with a spray of sparks. The War Boy tried to impale his attacker on the end of the staff. The warrior ran him through with his weapon, twisting the blade before removing it from the War Boy's gut. He slid down onto the sand, silent as he died.

The Judas strode towards the back seat of the car where the feral wanderer and his woman gaped. He ripped the door open. They got out without argument. Cutting away the hasty knots that tied their hands behind their backs, he motioned towards the jeep, giving them leave to go.

As he walked away, he dipped down towards one of the bodies, retrieving something from a bloodied fist. The young War Boy gripped his thunderstick tight, the wood biting into his flesh as his breathing hitched. The Judas stopped hard in his tracks beside him.

"Make for the Citadel, don't return to the Bullet Farms, Pup," a gravelly voice spoke from the masked face. "Tell them you don't want to settle for a half-life any longer."

A resounding clang rose from between his boots as the Judas tossed him the ignition key to the motorbike. When the young War Boy looked up a second later, the Judas was gone. A shadow high on the opposite cliff caught his attention. The Judas watched him from high above as he got onto his bike and rode towards the Fury Road, goosebumps rising on his bare neck despite the blistering sun.

He never told anyone what he had seen that day. He was certain they would think he was crazy, but not the good kind.

 **~o~**

The convoy had been on a supply run to the Citadel with bullets and gas, ready to trade for fresh produce. They had plenty of ammunition, even more Guzzoline. What they needed were greens and milk. With a disgusted snarl, the Judas threw the last canister into the back of his truck. With the last surviving War Boy well on his way to freedom beyond Gastown and it's insane Imperator, from the Bullet Farms with it's Immortan Legion, the Judas returned to the canyon at sundown to scavenge from the vehicles.

"...witness..." a rasping cry rose from one of the bodies. A War Boy hadn't been killed by a glancing bullet, only wounded and stunned.

The Judas whipped towards the voice. The War Boy dragged himself through the sand, a rusted knife clenched in his fist. He squinted up at the Judas, striking out weakly with the blade. The bullet might not have killed him, but it had gone clean through his spine. The lower half of his body was useless while the pale painted, upper half was riddled with cancerous growths. The Judas peered down at the ruin of a human being with his one weak eye.

"Witness me..." the War Boy croaked as he pathetically tried to stab the Judas in his foot.

The Judas tugged down the lower half of his face covering, leaving the hood over his shaggy head. He crouched in front of the War Boy, his heavily lined brow furrowed. A sparse beard grew over his cheeks, cut through with pink lines of deep scars running from the edges of his thin lips towards his sharp jaw line. They had once been held together with staples, but the bits of metal were long lost.

Burn scars covered the right side of his head beyond his cheek bone. One ear was missing. The ragged scarring ran down the side of his neck and up onto his scalp, his black curls refusing to grow where he'd been badly burned. One blue eye was swaddled in white membrane, a defect from birth. The other was glassy with blindness.

The Judas knew what it was like to be a ruined War Boy. But he had lived in the desert long enough to know the difference between those that had a chance and those that were destined for Valhalla.

"I witness you," he replied in his distinct growl.

The War Boy swiped at him once more with the blade. The Judas took the knife from him and slit his throat with one clean cut. The War Boy's head dropped onto the sand, spilling blood down the canyon floor. The Judas tossed the knife aside and rose to his feet. Clasping his hands in a familiar motion, mimicking the workings of a V8 engine, he bowed his head in acknowledgement of his fallen foe, a former comrade he had never known.

Some habits had been too ingrained in the Judas for him to break.


	3. Pillars of Smoke

Nights were quiet in the Bunker. After they ate their usual meal of dehydrated food, John the Judas praying silently both before and after, the two men sharpened and cleaned their weapons. Then John would read aloud. Tonight it was from his favorite text, a chapter in one of the ancient holy books, one of many different faiths they hoarded in their steel vault with their other valuables.

"The appearance of them is as the appearance of horses; and as horsemen, so shall they run. Like the noise of chariots on the tops of mountains shall they leap, like the noise of a flame of fire that devoureth the stubble, as a strong people set in battle array..."

John's weathered fingers flipped the delicate pages. He wore a pair of cracked spectacles, making his fearsome appearance almost sedate. His thick, graying curls hung down over his shoulders, his beard thick on his jaw. Deep lines spread from the creases of his black eyes. He still wore his brown shroud, the hood tugged up over his head, nodding quietly to himself as he read.

A single bulb illuminated the sparse, neat room. Everything was well worn, the sofa in the corner mended and patched, the table sanded down and stained with the years. The sink in the corner was more yellow than white. The chair under him creaked as Ehud leaned forward, running a whetstone down the length of his sword then wiping the blood from the handle. Ehud had made the hilt from an engine connecting rod that had once hooked a crankshaft to the piston.

"...they shall walk every one in his path: and when they fall upon the sword, they shall not be wounded..."

Rolling his knotted shoulders, Ehud cleared his throat. John paused in his reading and peered across the table at him.

"Something the matter?"

Ehud shook his head and rose to his feet. He picked up his discarded shroud, one that matched John's, and folded it over. He didn't like to wear it or the face coverings he sported when he left the Bunker. He had gotten into the habit of wearing two t-shirts of dark green and gray, alternating which was cleaner, but something in him still preferred only his black cargo pants and boots when he worked on their vehicles. Even after roaming in freedom with John the Judas for many days, his days as Slit the War Boy had been difficult to leave behind in some ways.

"Why do you like this text the most?" he blurted with a strained laugh.

"You used to like the Book of Joel. When you were healing."

"Yes, because it was all I knew then," Ehud chuckled, sinking down into the deep cushions of the faded sofa. "War was all I knew."

"War is what we live every day. It's what you and I did in the canyon this afternoon."

"I know."

John removed his spectacles, his gaze piercing Ehud. "What happened when you returned to scavenge the wrecks? You've been quiet since you returned."

Ehud licked his lips and sighed, rubbing his scarred hand through his shaggy curls. When he'd been burned, he had been wearing a fingerless glove. When John had removed the material from his hand, it had nearly peeled a whole layer of skin with it. A permanent scar of rough skin like a fingerless glove remained behind. But the appendage still worked, that was all Ehud cared about.

"I had to be witness for a War Boy. He hadn't died yet."

John nodded solemnly. He didn't need to ask what his protege meant by witness. He knew the custom all too well.

"And did you send him off well?"

Ehud nodded.

"Then you did all you could."

Knowledge of the Old World had swiftly torn down the barriers in his impoverished mind. Over the years spent with John, he had learned to read and did as much as his bum eye would allow. Then John would take over, reading aloud as he had while Ehud had laid in coalescence, his relentless body slowly healing.

In the world before the Wasteland, John had been a surgeon with the army. He had used his precious supplies and knowledge to restore Ehud to health. The burns had taken his deformed right ear and the cancerous lump there, John surgically removing the remaining pieces using only topical anesthetic. It hadn't made another appearance since then. John had been right, Slit called Ehud was not easy to kill.

"After it happened, it made me wonder if- how far I've actually come from..."

"It made you wonder if Ehud is any better than Slit the War Boy."

"...yes." Ehud tentatively looked up at his mentor.

The older man nodded his head in understanding as though he were still reading his scripture. "What would Slit the War Boy have done if presented with such a choice?"

Ehud recalled the cold words he'd shouted after Morsov's courageous leap into the Buzzard's spikes. _Mediocre._ That's what he had said with a cold laugh. No, he had been too proud in those days, too confident in his own inevitable destiny on the roads of Valhalla. He hadn't liked the attention taken from him.

"He would have walked away and let him die soft."

"But this afternoon, you didn't. You gave him comfort in the only fate he could ever have comprehended. You gave him mercy."

Ehud paced restlessly. He had paced a lot in the first year off his feet, confined to the bunker, reading books and watching films of the Old World, the years of ignorance breaking down effectively, but painfully. A few times he had been so overwhelmed by the burst of knowledge, John had been forced to sedate him. But still, Ehud came back for more. He needed more of that Old World, less of the Wasteland. It was a dangerous hunger, to want to be civilized in an uncivilized world.

" _Mercy_?" His coal curls brushing his thick shoulders as he shook his head. "Mercy was what you did for me, saving me after I'd been cooked alive in a broken down car, half blind-"

"There are different kinds of mercy, especially in this world. And none of them are easy. You must understand something that it took me years to grasp. You cannot save everyone, you will not. But that does not mean you lose your humanity when something like this happens." John rose to his feet. He was as tall as Ehud. Despite his age, his build was equally impressive. It made it easy to trick their enemies into thinking they were only one man. "But there are some that must be saved. Some that I believe are special. You are such a one, Ehud. Never doubt that."

Ehud sniffed and nodded as John gripped his shoulder. "Tomorrow. Can we read something else?"

"Jules Verne?"

Ehud cracked a smile at the mention of his favorite. " _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_?"

"I believe I could manage that, son," John replied congenially. "Get to bed soon, tomorrow-"

The glaring alarm lights over the circular door to the bunker flashed. Both men sprang towards the door, Ehud throwing his shroud on over his head. Pausing at the entrance for each to retrieve one of the neatly hanging weapons on the wall, John pushed open the circular door. Climbing a set of carved rock steps to the cave entrance above, John pushed open the vault door camouflaged into the stone.

The desert outside was steeped in night, the stars brilliant overhead as they laid down at the edge of the cliff. Taking out a worn pair of old Army, infrared, night vision goggles, John scanned the landscape. He pointed silently towards an encroaching dust cloud.

"Buzzards," he whispered. "Quite a few of them from the looks of it."

Ehud looked towards the east and elbowed John. "What is that? A sandstorm?"

Heading on a swift wind, black clouds high in the night sky sped towards the canyon. Like the pillars of smoke that Ehud had read about in John's holy book. Streaks of lightening broke across the plumes, shielding the constellations overhead. The air looked fuzzy beneath it but Ehud wondered if that was just his poor vision.

"No. No, that is a thunderstorm. Rain."

"Rain," Ehud breathed. "Like the kind from the Old World?"

"Yes, its been decades since such a phenomenon has been seen in the Wasteland. But I'm familiar with it. When the rains come here, they are savage, causing flash floods."

"Floods?"

"An overabundance of water. Too much and too dangerous."

It sounded like a dream to Ehud. "Like the kind in that book, Gilgamesh, when the great gods drowned the world."

"Exactly. We won't have to worry about those Buzzards in a moment. They'll either be drowned or have the sense to ride back to their lair. Come on, we'd better get inside."

Ehud lingered, hoping to feel a drop of rain. John hissed at him to follow and Ehud did so reluctantly. He leaped down into the cave that led to the Bunker. John was standing at the entrance, peering up at the sky.

"What are you doing?"

John shrugged. "We don't want to get caught out in it but we can watch for a moment till it gets too dangerous. These canyons will turn into rivers like they once were in ancient times. I can tell you're curious."

Ehud bit back a smile and stood next to his mentor, holding his breath in the waiting air. The electricity from the thunder clouds was like that he sensed before a sandstorm. He could smell the dampness, his heart thudding in his chest.

"It's on our doorstep," John breathed.

The heavens erupted overhead, driving sheets of water pounding the sand outside the cave. Ehud barked a laugh of surprise and stuck out a hand. It was warm but stung as it fell, the full force of the storm focused on their canyons.

"I constructed a rain cache years ago just in case this happened again. I'm glad I've maintained it. It's finally getting some use," John commented dryly. "Come on then, it's already too strong. Let's get inside."

The rain fell all night. In his bunk across the hall from John's room, Ehud lay awake under his scratchy wool blanket, a relic of the Old World. The steady throb of the rain and rush of flood waters in the canyon above kept him awake and thinking.

Was this how rain had looked every time it had fallen in the Old World? He thought about the movies John had shown him on the clunky television set, imprinted on something called a video tape. One part of a film came to mind. It had baffled him at the time and still did. Two people were trying to find a lost cat in the rain in a maze of Old World streets, things John had called 'alleyways'. When they found the sopping orange animal, they confessed their love for each other then kissed. The whole thing was so mind boggling, Ehud had only gaped at the screen. The only reason why they should have had a cat like that in the first place would be for eating.

John had patiently explained the concept of romance to him, that the scene was once considered one of the most romantic of it's age. Ehud still insisted it was ridiculous. There were some things about the Old World that he could do without. What made those two characters feel love for one another over a drenched cat? He didn't even want to know the answer, it would only numb his brain. The Wasteland was the last place for pointless behavior like that.

John had tried to explain that there were different kinds of warm feelings. Initially, it had made little sense to Slit, but soon Ehud began to understand. He cared for John, the warm friendship feeling John had mentioned. Perhaps once, he had cared in a similar way for his brothers in the Citadel, for Nux whom he'd been close to since they were Pups, as close as War Boys could be before jealous competition got in the way.

But he'd never wanted to kiss John or Nux in the rain... over a cat...

He almost laughed out loud at the image and rolled over in bed, concluding that he was thinking way too much. It had to be the rain giving him these ideas. Anyway, it was better than thinking of the body of that dead War Boy being washed from the canyon out into the desert, left for the crows to pick over in the heat of the day.

Part of him still hoped there was such a thing as Valhalla. At least for their sake. Perhaps that was a form of mercy as well.


End file.
